


Grandmotherly spells

by PudentillaMcMoany



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:07:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6873283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PudentillaMcMoany/pseuds/PudentillaMcMoany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hannah gets married, John is heartbroken. A grandmother comes to the rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grandmotherly spells

“Dad! Dad, he’s still here! Make him go AWAY!”

He hears it from the open window, and then the jingle of bracelets, voices murmuring; he can see, if he squints, a thick braid, smell the jasmine oil, feels the soft texture of it under his fingertips.

A couple of minutes pass. The door opens.

“John.”

“Doctor Gopal.”

“Do you want to come inside.”

 

The interior of the house is a chaos of family members coming and going, parcels being delivered, hairdressers and makeup people flying from cousin to cousin, fretting with pins, braiding hair, painting nails. Hannah’s dad escorts John down the corridor and into the living room, while all the women of the Gopal household (and some children) look at him, tutting, shaking their heads ( _harpies_ , he thinks, but that’s not nice, it’s their right after all to despise him).

In the kitchen, cluttered by food trays and wedding gifts as it is, he finally breathes. There is no one there except for Hannah’s grandmother, who almost smiles at him, gets up to busy herself with the kettle.

“Have a sit,” says Hannah’s dad. He is still wearing his battered t-shirt, hair mussed and slippers on his feet, sweaty from waiting for the catering van in the sun. When John sits down he lets himself fall on the chair in front of him, gasping an ill-concealed sigh of relief.

“John,” says Hannah’s dad. He breathes, seemingly uncertain on what to say. “Aren’t you tired of staying here? She won’t be coming down. Go home. Get some sleep.”

“I do not need to sleep.”

“You were here all night.”

“I need to talk to her.”

“There is nothing to talk about, John.” Hannah’s dad looks half angry and half sorry for him, which is an odd expression on his usually calm face. John feels a little bit flustered, which is unusual as well. This home used to be his home, too.

“But I _have to_ ,” murmurs John, defeated. He looks at his own hands, then stares at his battered trainers.

“We know you love her, you were screaming it all night. But John. It is done. She’s getting married. How many times did she ask you? And you always said no.”

“I know, and I was a wanker, sorry Mrs Gopal, Doctor Gopal, but I want to marry her now. I can. If you would just let me talk to her, maybe-”

“You can’t marry my daughter just to keep her from marrying someone else!” Exclaims Doctor Gopal, baging his fist on the table, finally won over by the stress and the sleepless night. He sees John starting and exhales, eyes closed, as if to calm himself. “You broke her heart. She had to move on.”

John feels himself dangerously close to tears, as if the broken heart, after all, were his. He fidgets on the chair, embarrassed in the silence, and meditates whether he should leave. For a while, that is. He could always come back in a couple of hours. It would still not be too late.

Just as he is about to get up and excuse himself, Hannah’s grandmother places a steaming mug in front of him, stills him with the gentle touch of her hand on his shoulder.

“Have a drink, it will help.”

“I’m not thirsty, Mrs Gopal.”

“Drink anyway! It’s magic water,” she whispers, as if it’s a secret, chuckling to herself as she sits on the opposite side of the table.

“It’s not magic water. It’s ayurveda. Mum.”

But John, who believes in magic, takes a sip, smiling at Hannah’s grandmother from behind the mug. The smile feels tense, as if his face is not used to it anymore, but it’s a start nonetheless.

“John, you really should go,” pleas Hannah’s dad, but her grandmother, now in charge, just rolls her eyes. Distractedly, John thinks that he would give everything to be able to convey, just by that single gesture, the same wealth of contempt with the world.

“Vikram, why don’t you leave us alone?”

“You need to get ready, mum, and John was about to leave.”

“I wasn’t leaving.”

“John. Mum.”

“Vikram..!” Hannah’s grandmother, like a powerful witch, shoos her son away with a gesture of her hand, punctuated by the metallic ring of bracelets. _Old hag_ , John hears Doctor Gopal mutter, but he goes outside, where another catering van has arrived, and shuts the door behind him.

 

Amidst the chaos of the house, the kitchen seems almost quiet around John. It smells enticingly like food from the catering, and underneath, like Spring, coming into the room from the open windows in thrills of birds and flurries of leaves stirred by the zephyr.

John drinks his tea. He does not know what it’s supposed to do, but it’s magic, isn’t it? And anyway it soothes him (he thinks of the name of the herbs, unfolding like a spell on his tongue: cassia and cinnamon bark; cardamom, cloves and turmeric).

“John Childermass.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be! But you love her very much, don’t you?”

Childermass does not speak. He makes a sound like a defeated grunt, sips his tea.

“I am sorry too. But you know my granddaughter. Once she has decided, she has decided.”

Childermass feels his mouth trembling, his eyes stinging. He pointedly looks at the ceiling.

Across the table from him, Hannah’s grandmother takes his hand between hers.

It is a strange contact, a little bit embarrassing, as  if he were a small child. When he looks down at their intertwined hands his looks very young, feels very young, even, under the rough pads of old fingers stained by the sun, etched in henna and earth from the garden. He feels his throat clutching again for some reason, and has to fight back tears.

“Hannah’s grandfather was not my first love.”

“Hannah mentioned.”

“We were so in love! With the other one I mean. And then, two months before our marriage, he goes and gets himself ran over by a train; very bad timing, if you ask me.”

Hannah’s grandmother strokes the back of his hand methodically, in circles. John wants to lean into it; and to lean on the table, feel that calloused hand on his head, ask for a caress like a lost child. Not that he does it. But the voice of Hannah’s grandmother is strangely soothing, a bit raspy from smoking, lilting like a song with plosives sweet like little bells.

“I thought I would never love again. After some time my parents started coming out with other people. _Don’t you like him?_ They asked me. But I didn’t like anyone. How could I? I thought my heart was closed forever.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“It wasn’t. Hannah’s grandfather made me laugh. We came here together, made a family, travelled even! He was the love of my life.”

“You forgot about your first love?”

“Of course not! It still hurts. It still does! But-” she shrugs, laughing a little, dismissive. She takes her hand away from him, almost coquettish, and John feels like he sees her, for a moment, as she was (a crown of dark hair around her head, a daring smile; and small, dainty hands). “You will find someone else. I promise.”

“It doesn’t make things better.”

“Oh, but it will. Now stop with this nonsense. Go home, take a shower and dress yourself.”

“You reckon I should come to the wedding? After _all this_?”

“Hannah would never forgive you.” She must see the skepticism in John’s eyes, because she raises her eyebrows in emphasis. “It might seem awkward now, but you have to trust me on this. You wouldn’t forget yourself either. Besides, the food is excellent.”

 

* * *

 

 

All wrapped up in red, covered in so much gold that she almost can’t raise her arms, Hannah looks like a tiny, fierce goddess with a halo of dark hair and dainty small hands. She laughs in her husband’s arms as they dance, her family and friends all around her (her aunts and her cousins and friends not looking like harpies in the least now, but like laughing happy tipsy women who dance ungainly and barefooted, their long skirts hiked up on their knees).

From the corner of the room, in his hand-me-down suit, John Childermass feels out of place. He also feels a bit tipsy, and very much in love, and broken-hearted. He feels the magic water working on him, grandmotherly spells like electric fingertips tugging at his heart. They unfurl in him, and comfort him, whispering hope in his ear.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to come up with headcanons for Childermass's teenagerhood, and I was unpredictably hit by Hannah/Childermass feels. Of course Hannah is basically an original character. There wasn't much in canon on which to build her character, except that she is awesome.  
> This happens in the universe of Political Arrangements, but can be read as a stand alone because it has nothing to do with it. The connection is just in my head!


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